


Silent Touch

by deanlovescastielswormstache



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 03:31:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2214171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlovescastielswormstache/pseuds/deanlovescastielswormstache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras doesn't know how to approach Grantaire when he is upset.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Touch

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt "Don't fucking touch me," + E/R. Ok, I wrote this in fifteen minutes at midnight after a party, so it's short and not much happens but that's the way it came out. Feel free to send me prompts on tumblr!

"Don't fucking touch me." The words were harsh and biting, slicing Enjolras to the bone. His raw nerve endings burned fiercely and he dropped Grantaire's wrist immediately, muttering a hurried apology as he let his arm hang limply by his side, lifeless where it had hoped to give comfort. The air felt colder and emptier against his hand than the warmth of Grantaire’s rough skin, and Enjolras did not allow himself to contemplate this feeling of loss in his chest that he had grown accustomed to.

 

Enjolras eyed Grantaire carefully, attempting to gain clues from Grantaire's slumped silhouette. His hands were stained with paint, flecks of red standing out starkly against his dusky skin. Some of the paint was stuck underneath his fingernails, dried like blood. Enjolras shuddered at the thought. The hands were currently clutching a bottle of beer in a white knuckled grip and Enjolras wondered what had brought on this recent bout of drinking. Grantaire had been doing so well recently that Enjolras had gained some hope that he would turn some of his drunken and belligerent arguments into concise and pointed debate rather than a random intoxicated ramble on any topic that struck his fancy. His eyes ran up Grantaire’s arms that showed more frequent bruises from his careless boxing sessions with Bahorel and a tattered t-shirt that didn’t quite cover Grantaire’s arched curve of collarbone. The head was bent, blue eyes gazing intently at the bottle and mussed curls covering the majority of his expression so that Enjolras couldn’t guess the other’s emotions.

 

Enjolras sighed. By all appearances, Grantaire looked worn down, yet the tense set of his shoulders and the remarkable silence that took place in the meeting today told Enjolras that something was off, something large enough to bother Grantaire, who was always laughing and drinking and drinking and laughing. He had approached Grantaire’s solitary perch after the meeting, hoping to offer some meager encouragement and to ease the ache in his chest that ate his stomach more than guilt ever had. Yet, as soon as he had placed his hand on Grantaire’s wrist in comfort, Grantaire’s words rang out like a whiplash to Enjolras’ already frayed remnants of self-confidence. _Don’t fucking touch me._ Enjolras swallowed, reminded how dry his mouth suddenly was, before decisively taking a seat across from Grantaire.

 

He waited patiently until Grantaire raised his eyes hesitantly to look at Enjolras, wide eyes full of guilt and a sorrow that ran deeper than Enjolras could imagine. It suddenly struck Enjolras how much older Grantaire’s eyes seemed. It wasn’t how bloodshot or tired they were. It was the look of someone who had given up, someone who had seen the worst that life could throw them and almost defiantly, gazed back, daring them to throw them more, because it hardly mattered any longer. Enjolras felt a shiver run down his back. He knew that he and Grantaire had their differences, yet he wished that it was easier for them to understand each other, to be able to speak openly with the other.

 

“What do you want now Enjolras? I just did posters.” Grantaire sounded exhausted, but resigned to the fact that Enjolras would ask him to give even what appeared to be his worst night, to the cause. Enjolras heart shrank three times seeing that hunched figure that still managed to put others before himself.

 

“No, not posters tonight Grantaire. Just thought that you might need someone to talk to.” Enjolras said it softly, hoping no one overheard their rather private conversation, and praying that Grantaire accepted his presence in his haze of misery and alcohol.

 

Grantaire snorted painfully loudly, a noise of derision that agonizingly nudged Enjolras' very core. “And you think you are the perfect candidate? We only ever disagree. And it’s usually quite loudly and explosively at that. Why now?”

 

Enjolras gazed down at his intertwined hands, inches away from those of Grantaire. “Is it really so hard to believe that I like you as a person Grantaire?”

 

The words were like a blow to Grantaire, who seemed to flinch back, his hands tightening and flexing around the beer bottle, blue eyes widening as they scanned Enjolras’ face, looking for some hidden truth that Enjolras could only hope he’d find. “No,” he breathed finally. “I mean, both yes and no. You care about people, so I know that in general you don’t mind me but you hate my drinking and my smoking and my cynicism, to just name a few of my prominent traits.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous Grantaire.” Enjolras’ tone was brisk, attempting to control the wavering confidence that he felt in this conversation and bring it back to some familiar ground.

 

Grantaire smirked and the return of the familiar commanding tone, his right hand moving to the rim of the bottle, tracing it with the tip of his index finger. “Haven’t you heard Enjolras? I am wild.” Grantaire said it with a trace of amusement, but it was not enough to cover the despair in his voice.

 

Enjolras reached forward before he was fully aware what he was doing, covering Grantaire’s hand with his. “That doesn’t change the fact that I care about you, R.” Enjolras’ hand tingled at the contact. Grantaire slowly raised disbelieving eyes to Enjolras’ face. A smile slowly spread across his features and he reached forward to cover Enjolras’ hand with his own.

 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

 

They sat like that for hours that night, tears running down Grantaire’s cheeks and wonder in Enjolras’ eyes. No words were spoken.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow my personal blog [here](http://deanlovescastielswormstache.tumblr.com) and my Les Mis blog [here](http://permets-tu-not-permettez-vous.tumblr.com).


End file.
